Holy Clutter

Haiti is sprawled out on my bedroom floor. Half empty suitcases and folded laundry. Wedding remains and a few stray pieces of art from middle school camp. Piles for the Union Gospel Mission; unmailed letters and unfinished books. Binders for SOLD waiting to be cleaned and organized and redone for the dozenth time.

And, my eyes catch on the holiness in the middle of this mess.

The first aid kit that I packed for one of the girls, knowing that she would hone in on injuries like a beacon, little heads clustered around while she cleans and bandages fresh scrapes and crusted wounds with a gentle efficiency.

This seventeen year old who finds joy when she bends down low, who props the countless foot up against the black edge of her basketball shorts and quietly gives one of the American boys the courage to offer up gravel torn hands.

We watch as infection gives way to raw pink flesh, as dirt gives way to healing, and it is holy.

Holy to meet each other here, in this place where we are all broken. Where healing comes from antibiotic ointment and decongestant, but mainly from the fact that we are in this together. From this Grace that sits like a salve over the deepest hurts of our souls.

Silver and red. Battered. Marked with last year's wood stain and this year's dirt.

Holy.

Holy, like the Toms that have stood to bear witness to my sister's wedding and stood to bear witness to communion at a church in Fond Cheval.

Not yet broken in or stretched to the unique contours of my feet, they carry the dust of two places, two celebrations, two ceremonies that whisper of the eternal promise that is this Love.

I think of the pinch of a bridesmaid's dress, the faint but bitter burn of communion wine, and I am reminded that there is no joy without some sorrow. Of the orange tint to little girl braids that bury themselves in my shoulder for a hug. The painted over poverty of Jalousie. The protests and the dead teenager that we left behind in the States.

Reminded that this space, this right now, in the middle of this mess, is Holy.

Reminded by the stark blue and gold of my passport, by five quiet hours in the US consulate office to get a new one for one of the girls on our team, while passport-less children face vitriol in the same city for daring to flee violence in the only home that they have ever known.

Holy is the well worn backpack that has carried high school text books but also bounced along the floor of Kenyan busses. The intermittent whir of zippers as the kids learn to trust for simple provision: sunscreen, aloe, pens, toilet paper.

Holy is when we learn who has the hand sanitizer and who carries the Tylenol, when we move forward without second thought, trusting to the giftings and strengths of others to fill in the places where we are weak. When Mercy seasons Justice.

And, on and on the stories could go.

Because, for now, this mess is holy.